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Watershed

Volume 22, Number 1

Fall 1998

Editors

Jen Adams

Joanie Bassler

Cara Blank

Jesse Burns

Robert V. Crislip

Courtney Danehy

Brandi Floberg

Robin Jackson

Alexia Lipparelli

Heidi Paton

Denise Peterson

Alessandra Renteria

Advisor

Ellen L. Walker

Cover Design

Tad Perez

Special thanks to Gregg Berryman and CDES 23, Fall 1998 for

an exceptionally rich set of cover design proposals.

© 1998 Department of English, California State University, Chico

Watershed is supported by Instructionally Related Activities,

through Student Activities Funds awarded by the College of

Humanities and Fine Arts.

WATERSHEDVolume 22, Number 1

Watershed

Contents

Amy Antongiovanni

Colored Plates / 16

Gifts / 18

Platonic Moment / 15

Ryan Michael Atencio

August 1983 / 31

The Shark / 32

Noreen Austin

A Lingering Season / 11

Chris Baldwin

Self Defense / 27

Anne Barrington

Freight / 3

Donald Beaman

Fractured / 10

Roxanne Brooks

Pop Star / 21

Preheat 350° / 23

splendid, above the rafters / 22

Trevor Calvert

Epiphany at 3 a.m. / 1

Secrets / 2

Barbara Caneer

La Mujer Muda / 45

Lot's Daughters / 42

Spring, You Jade / 40

Stalked / 44

Catherine Huff Clayton

Fishing and Father / 30

Bob Garner

silly old pablo / 14

Roxanna Glang

Twelfth Summer / 4

Melanee Grondahl

Bailar / 9

IAm/7

Samsonite Soliloquy / 8

Photography

Coffee House at Sunrise / 28

Ophelia #2 / 41

Resurrection / 6

John Gurnee

Saturday's Heroes / 37

R. Eirik Ott

rage / 25

Meghan Hedrick Philippi

Just Like Grandma / 34

Sam Provenzano

Who Gonna / 38

Alexandria Rocha

Red Light District / 39

Shannon Rooney

Awake / 29

Mark Stilwell

Through the Meadow / 20

Trevor Culvert

Epiphany at 3 a.m.

Last night my girlfriend gave birth

to fish. Out they fell,

without warning: gleaming

drops of mercury,

rainbows and oil slicks.

Like Cronos,

I ate them all.

Today I see rainbows

in every puddle.

Watershed 1

Trevor Calvert

Secrets

Silently they grope, long fingers with

cracked nails and tongues like spades

pushing and tasting the damp earth

O so quiet, watching, waiting

they know they are the end

the true children of this earth, there down

below, with their cities and hoary culture

that is old and patient and hungry

2 Watershed

Anne Barrington

Freight

On executioner's feet

sleek head, belly, haunches

unblinked

slink by

and a train disappearing

flicks its tail into the night

Watershed 3

Roxanna Glang

Twelfth Summer

I miss you

like I missed my twelfth summer.

That was when they told me

in the burgundy station wagon.

A vortex pulled me through the Naugahyde

into the spiral of metal springs,

minus the filling.

A child

with Irish Setter eyes, and

a sea anemone heart,

lodged in Buddha's bellybutton,

rolling with laughter, then

retching for God.

I wonder how long my favorite veins, those

highways on the back of your hands,

strutted

like peacocks

before the gate-keepers.

Did they flutter

feathery blue,

impressing the biting red lines that

queue like musical notes suspended in a

conductor's wrist-

dancing across digital pages.

Each year I climb further out from

the hole in that backseat,

where the seasons stopped, and

into a creosote galaxy,

spinning toward its middle,

a push-me, pull-you

looking toward its navel.

I'm still your pip-squeak cowboy,

a sea urchin in your saddle, riding

4 Watershed

just for the thrill

of touching you.

Sometimes my half-life voice

seeps through my lips,

pleading

"Daddy, I want down now."

The years have crumpled

the envelope containing

memories of you.

Sometimes the wind

blows just right, and

I smell bucking bronco rides on

the front lawn.

Other times, the wind

doesn't blow at all, and

the air is as still as the inside of

your coffin.

No more creosote fumes, no

more calloused palm on my face, no

more broken furniture.

Did you know it was your last one?

your last day

your last drink

your last breath

Watershed 5

Melanee Grondahl Resurrection

Melanee Grondahl

I Am

Standing in the cemetery with the wind

blowing out her candles on her 18th birthday

party all through high school

dropout of time spent

dreaming drugs while drinking

coffee at a cafe

when they met

he was thinking love she was thinking like

a teenager not a wife

after the wedding

he kissed her

in the corner

she cowered in her dress as he was yelling

"he wore the pants"

she would iron

his wrinkles

were reminders of

the young bride

no longer the little woman

above his grave

six feet under

him no more

abuse was over now

she knew who she was

Watershed 7

Melanee Grondahl

Samsonite Soliloquy

Paris is over in the left corner behind the ten dollar garage

sale chair. The Seine flows over the cheap upholstery and

forms dirty puddles that tourists carrying hard baguettes step

in and swear in English as a passing Parisian tilts his head and

mutters, "small wee wee Monsieur."

Behind my bed a lush forest throbs with sputtering insects,

dark caves echo the dreams of hibernating beasts, and trees fall

without making a sound.

Several countries hang precariously next to the ceramic

cherub on my wall. Arabs in sandal feet and Eskimos in fur-

lined boots trek over its outstretched wing, sliding over desert

dunes, jumping onto moving glaciers, and landing in exhaust

ed heaps with damp feet and sand in their teeth.

Hollywood sits inside my oak display case. The muffled

sounds of superhighways and sighing waiters with stars in

their eyes seep out, erasing the silence of my broken radio. The

"D" in the Hollywood sign fell the other day when I tried to

tap on the glass pane and get Robert Deniro's autograph.

Late at night when I lay on top of South Dakota with my pil

low propped on top of the Black Hills, I can hear the

ungreased, rotating pedestals squeaking as they turn plas-

tiqued starlets and sculpted movie hunks with painted-on

smiles. The island of Nantucket is perched on top of the coffee

table. My blue shag carpet does a swell job of doubling for the

Atlantic Ocean. Pristine white cottages bric-a-brac the shore

line surrounded by miles of stain proof wall-to-wall. Children

race across the sand dodging piles of old magazines and my #1

Dad mug full of salt water from a recent storm.

Patches of white heather are scattered and waiting for the

memorial service among the sparse foliage of my suffering fern.

Clumps of potting soil grow into the rolling hills of Scotland. I

pour seven drops of plant food into a cup made in Japan and

mimic the sounds of a freak thunderstorm as I pour it over

bearded clansmen playing Amazing Grace on their bagpipes.

My imagination speeds on like an Amtrak train meandering

over states, countries, continents, and Barstow, California. I

drink the complimentary beverage.

8 Watershed

Melanee Grondahl

Bailar

triple time the pasillo with me baby dancin7 man

you make me hot in black shoes

with your funky ass moves

slamming on the horizontal click clack floor

hold me hard ripping rhythm

snap my heels between your legs

bite the bass, swing me cool

let me hang on your shivers

fall freaky notes between banging bones

leave panting vibrations in my mouth

Watershed 9

Donald Beaman

Fractured

fractured photos faces landscapes

eyelids bridges cracked with commas

10 Watershed

Noreen Austin

A Lingering Season

I swallowed the rush of cold air after I opened the bathroom

door. As the heated moisture disappeared, I fumbled with the

buttons on my blouse hoping I wouldn't be late for work. Yet

my hands paused at the bottom and my eyes pursued a thread

that was threatening to slow me down. I discovered that my

skirt's hem had come loose. The crease clung to my calves

where my pantyhose was creating a ladder down my leg.

"That's the fourth pair this week I've run," I said out loud.

Sharon, my seventeen-year-old daughter, did not respond.

She continued to crawl down the hallway, scrambling by with

a pack of cigarettes sticking out of her pocket. She scooted for

ward on her knees, dragging her feet.

"You don't need to sneak cigarettes anymore," I said as I

plucked my hose. "I know you smoke, have for a long time."

But she never glanced my way; she only gazed ahead, her

expression flat.

Another time, Sharon would have flounced to her room with

a soda and a half-eaten candy bar, and I would have told her

to eat a normal breakfast.

Although she would have said, "Come on mom, what's the

difference between a chocolate donut, coffee with tons of

sugar, and this?" Then she would have kissed me, leaving

chocolate lip prints on my cheek.

Forgetting my hose, I glanced at my reflection in the mirror

and noticed the dark rings under my eyes. Thinking I would

blend in more make-up before I left, I followed Sharon down

the hall to our rooms staring at the dirty bottoms of her feet,

letting them lead me to her room.

Her top dresser drawer, pulled opened, contained her faded

bikini. The pant was a little brighter, since she always wore a

pair of cut-offs over it. I grabbed the suit and placed it in a box

that held the things that defined my daughter: a beaded neck

lace, a fringed vest, and her favorite book, All Creatures Great

and Small. She dreamed of becoming a veterinarian, wearing a

white coat and playing with puppies all day. I shoved the box

back into a corner on her closet shelf.

Watershed 11

"You need the morning sun in here/' I said as I pulled back

her curtains and snapped open her shade.

I expected her to protest, "Mom! Just leave my curtains

alone! I like them closed in the morning; it's easier to put on

my mascara because my eyes aren't all squinty."

Yet, there in silence, I stared at the lock, remembering how I

had welded it shut the last time her father had visited.

During that visit, only the third since the divorce, he stood

in the backyard watching Sharon smoke. "What have you done

to make her so distant?" he accused more than asked. "And

when did you start giving her cigarettes?"

I snapped back, my usual reaction to his father act, "She

found your last hidden pack somewhere in our room, two

years ago, just one day after you..." I couldn't finish. Instead of

arguing further, I hurried to Sharon's room where I heated the

soldering iron.

Fingering the lock I welded that day, I shook my head, wish

ing I could forget him, forget the last couple of years. But espe

cially I wanted to forget the reason why I needed to make my

daughter's room a mausoleum. I picked up a barrette. I looked

in the mirror over her vanity table past my hair to hers. Her

hair, dull and matted, needed to be washed.

"Maybe you should shower today, Sharon," I told her.

Sharon sat on her bed with her legs crossed and rolled a cig

arette between her palms. My mind swung back. I remem

bered a different set of hands a few months ago right before

her father's visit. Sharon's boyfriend sat in my living room

rolling his keys back and forth, his elbows resting on the tops

of his spread out knees. His jeans were faded, and black grease

outlined his fingernails.

His cigarette burned in the ashtray as he spoke, "Jane, it was

like this..."

"Don't call me Jane."

Sharon paced the living room and held out her hand for his

cigarette. He gave it to her.

He shrugged, "She would fall asleep in a noisy theater, Mrs.

Anderson."

"Sharon could never sleep when there was noise."

I covered my face with my palms as he explained that

Sharon always climbed out of her bedroom window.

"She could be quieter than a butterfly," he had to say.

12 Watershed

As Sharon pounded the cigarette in the ashtray until it

stopped burning, she did not glance at either of us. And he

continued to explain about the parties and the secret that had

eroded my daughter's mind.

"It affects some people outright, doesn't bother some and

others it works slowly." He folded his arms in front of him.

"Anyway, at the last party, she curled up in a corner, bouncing

and humming."

"She reached out her hand and you gave it to her?" I

paused, staring at my own hand, the one I held out like she

must have, like the one she just held out when he handed her

the cigarette. "What kind of person..." I couldn't find any rea

son to continue.

"Mrs. Anderson?"

"What more could there be, Raymond?"

"She had wet herself." He had to have the last word.

I turned away from the vanity mirror and faced Sharon. She

had quit rolling the cigarette and I wondered if she remem

bered that final conversation between Raymond and me, or if

that memory too, was as tangled as her hair. She hopped off

her bed and pulled open her bedroom door to invite in a few

invisible friends. I stroked the orange and blue barrette, watch

ing the soundless scene. Yet hearing the tingle of her laugh and

the singsong pitches of her friends' voices, I spun around, fold

ed a clean diaper, and put it on the stack with the others realiz

ing for the first time that I wasn't going in to work.

"You need a bath today, Sharon," I said as I smoothed out

another diaper.

I then hurried to her and pressed her head against my chest.

I put my cheek on her hair, encircled her in my arms, and

rocked my daughter.

Watershed 13

Bob Garner

silly old pablo

silly old pablo

sat down with favorite

pen and began to write

about the ocean and the sky

and salt and beans

and love

about the wild and tender

sting of adoration,

the purple roses

on the broken

gramophone,

the ashtray

with the lipstained

cigarette

14 Watershed

Amy Antongiovanni

Platonic Moment

You imitate day like a field flushed yellow,

long for definition—

indigo hills against a fallen sky.

But the daffodils drying release

their wrinkled faces to the dark earth.

When you come inside and dial the phone,

you ask his name just to hear it,

and his voice echoes over the line

like a Pink Floyd ballad, like truck tires

screech in the teacher's parking lot—

It's that kind of forever you forget about for years,

until a voice sends you

back into the abyss of wanting

such drunken nights

you thought you didn't deserve; the yes

that erased all no's; the first time

is what this feels like

and the ache of your body reminds you

how fast forever can end.

But the shivers of memory,

a kiss that might have changed you,

that changed you like the moon

becoming full

which later shrinks back,

a toenail clipping on an oak floor.

Watershed 15

Amy Antongiovanni

Colored Plates

We sat outside the Mendocino Bakery

like vagrant kids on the corner, the clothes

we'd worn for three days hung

from our bodies, not wanting to belong to us.

I saw Love shake its knobby knuckle

at my chin, call me bad, bad

girl when the space like marriage grew

between our knees.

You made me sea green jealous, looking in

from the outside and seeing

so clearly. But I focused on the pastry

stuck to your chin,

watched waves somersault over

chunks of discarded cliff.

The wangled words and rampant headache

crept all over my body,

trying to write a poem about longing

and trust, my vision darkened and

ran like blood that escapes each month,

like a leak of maple syrup from a trunk

tapped in Maine. I am still

aroused by memories of a possible lover,

coupled fragrances of lemon-grass and rosemary, fennel on

sourdough,

the clean cotton shirt I slipped my hands beneath

and a nameless cologne that clung to my neck.

Still sitting next to you, I notice pink daisies tacked

to the bulletin board, resilient and wild at once, they soften

the black and white flier, Toyota pick-up

4-sale, low miles,

and a limestone wall raining ivy, or the red flush

of a girl's cheeks. She came in

16 Watershed

from the windy noon for hot chocolate, a biscuit, her mother's

kind words.

If I were her, maybe I could go home and change these

clothes—

but I'm stuck on the lily's callous face

that reminds me of him, a uniform pale, the yellow tick

at the center like his sex that protects him

from his true emotions, prevents me from knowing

what the chairs say in their plastic conversation.

I push the image from my mind,

wild flutter kisses leading everywhere—

Riding his bike last Sunday, I saw

yellow curls escape his cap, and on his face, the subtle determi

nation

of a hawk waiting patiently

on a fence post at the edge

of a field.

This afternoon in Albion you collect a fishing license,

abalone shell souvenirs to checker

in your garden of hope,

like rainbow pressed colored plates

to mark time among herbs and plants without names

like the cowboy cookie on a brown paper napkin,

lanky wallflowers in their purple verdure, scentless

and stiff;

your spine wants to flex and you simply don't know

how to let it breathe

in and out, though the waves know that dance,

can make meaning

of haphazard movements—

And I remain

the lightening stripped wood, scrapped on the shore

to be found by some kid who'll paste

eyeballs on my back, attach beads

to my middle and put me

in the windowsill

for her mother to praise.

Watershed 17

Amy Antongiovanni

Gifts

We bought your wedding gift today,

a pair of salad servers, their silver

handles curved in my hand like

a Waterford goblet, just heavy enough

to know it's real, and the handles end

in a whirlpool

carved casually in the metal

because their artist knew

how bright and twisted marriage can get.

Though you planned this day for months

you'll try to get your arms around

it a year or two from now, only to remember faint scents,

the color of the sky, and what the fabric felt like

against your skin.

I hear your Pop-pop fell—

Laying in a white sterile room

with an oxygen mask cupped

over his lips, he wonders what

your eyes will say

when she whispers her promises,

his own eyes dulled to a wintry blue.

They flutter, hope to see Tess

on your arm

wearing white satin, a fine

woven veil to mask her desire—

and though his world dissolves quickly,

falters between meaning and hope,

at the altar you smell the faint

citrus of your bride's perfume,

the glittery antique stone reflects

in her eyes like the white sun that filters

through mini-blinds next to his bed,

shimmers off a thermometer

in a stainless steel carafe.

18 Watershed

From the stained glass Mary,

blue gold crystals

splinter against wooden pews in diamonds,

on a cold surface, the scalpel punctures

cotton balls, the bitter wine

bites your tongue, her teeth etch

the brass goblet, and we all respond:

Thanks be to God

Although I never believed in

original sin, I'll catch my

breath, clench my husband's hand,

our gold bands will scratch

making room for our fingers—

Later, you'll open our gift.

Her face reflects in the slight curve

of the spoon, the whorl of celebration

around you might stop

for a moment

while you lean forward to

kiss her over boxes and tissue.

You'll take her hand

as Pop-pop takes his last quick

breath, whisper I love you, mine

while he's falling in circles

to wherever we go next—

Watershed 19

Mark Stilwell

Through the Meadow

Like wildflowers

that brushed against me as I passed,

They stand.

The essence

of them clings to me

like pollen

stowed away on my clothes

and waits.

Awaits

the right moment

to mate with the seed of another.

20 Watershed

Roxanne Brooks

Pop Star

Champion bones own shackles—

Pull, man, pull: birth of a horse.

Aztec births, assisted by shaman—

Patients waited on primitive toilets.

Guppies like a pimple pinch juicy—

One-by-one come out, swimming.

Stars, I hear, we create formally—

Not gravity; rather, crests of energy.

Thirty minutes from sperm to egg,

I deny his, tempt a genetic recipe.

To be water, ice cream and candy!

Maybe give me a star—still not easy.

Only birds, their birth, all species' envy!

Jellybean kids, then send them flying.

Watershed 21

Roxanne Brooks

splendid, above the rafters

a cup of tea

with the mothers

while the fathers

mock the history

of chess, pistachios

& foreign politics

letting timothy's

room hound you

with straight-edge

tunes, issued:

you still have my

nancy sinatra cd,

you do, so soon

talk secret cocktail

after steph's parrot

gnaws a hole

in the collar

of your Van Heusen

& no way, dear

to repair it.

22 Watershed

Roxanne Brooks

Preheat 350°

Eva? Was it love?

The aureole of an artist—

His, you shared?

Rudy snapped you

Frame by frame,

Courting the Black Forest

Of toothpicks & toad-

Stools. You kissed

His palm, nail to lipstick

And smiled: for Rudy,

Love and foreign dignitaries,

Marzipan on trellis balcony

With turkish tea, chocolate

And dollop of whiskey

Earlobe whispering

Of mother's grey cardigan:

If he made you bleed,

Daughter, how gently?

How, your fetus, future boiling?

Paying that Frau to strip:

You: one of many

Yet true, most faithful

Bird of fantasy!

Denial, dear

Ghastly nightmares

Goat's milk comforting

His sweat, cursing

Watershed 23

The pink-singing

Crust of morning:

His eyes, first thing

And your love, mother:

Mustache, enamouring?

Your hour-glass figure

His accidentally?

Infidel fire, spark

To his religion

Like Zorastrianism—

Bones: Charbroiled

Vermillion, to mother's

Simple autopsy question

Scarf to frame, polka-dot

Dress: Sex preceding?

Or, your volcano

Hour engagement,

Poison cooperating

Slowly, sulfur-pits

In fetus, vein, run purple,

And boil, alternating

With the cobalt spider

Of his mouth-hand-nazi:

Like lava along your lovely body.

24 Watershed

R. Eirik Ott

rage

as

the sun

lurches

from behind

the steeple-stabbed town

violets

shake

sun-splattered dewdrops

from dark petals

that quiver

in the prowling miasmic haze

a stoop-shouldered worker bee

grumbles

criss-crossing the field

collecting tithes

a stigmata-skinned lizard

partakes

of a praying mantis' twitching body

its ridged underbelly

folded

and wrinkled into a frown

then

white-hot light

bursts

through stained glass

rains

multicolored shards

upon a braying crowd

Watershed 25

the grimacing preacherman

scarlet robes ablaze

lashes his flock

into the apocryphal agony

His love invokes

Sunday mourning

in a prairie town

26 Watershed

Chris Baldwin

Self Defense

You jumped away from the firecracks

but the silence was so loud

that the girl stopped her screams,

you turned and stood like a boy, tiptoe

and watched his pirouette

across the backyard mossy light,

a Noh dancer stricken face-white

drunk on the stain that would not stop

and then the low moaning began,

trapped in a cloud damp well

rasping slow and hoarse like

the runover lab you could never forget,

choking on blood and pissing herself empty.

Soon their guns were leveled on you-

the concrete cold as a doctor's table.

When the cops had taken Aaron away,

their silent blue lights faded like an old movie.

With nothing this time to bury, you left

his glass of water like a chalice on your floor,

afraid to touch it.

Watershed 27

Melanee Grondahl Coffee Shop at Sunrise

Shannon Rooney

Awake

You eat

greasy French fries

at 5 a.m.,

swill dishwater coffee as you hunch over

at the tacky orange counter

of Denny's restaurant,

read the Tao te Ching

while dishes clink,

utensils rattle,

chatty, black-skirted waitresses

with tired faces rumble by,

stopping to ask, "More coffee, hon?"

Miles away

I sleep beneath flannel sheets,

immune to your early morning insomnia,

your fever of wakefulness. Coiled in warmth

you left behind, I dream

of a naked lunch

next to the serpentine creek

when the hills grow green again,

and splashing water

paints our awakening

as boldly as diamonds

on the backs of snakes.

Watershed 29

Catherine Huff Clayton

Fishing and Father

Turn,

the warm bread earth

out of the shovel loaf pan

to gather crumbwigglers

that dangle (little girl giggles)

on your teaching knee

as you break

the sweet communion bread earth.

Dragonfly sandwiches,

wasp warm root beer,

poppyred sequined ladies

lounge on a rotting log couch

gathered for a feast.

"Dragonflies sew up the mouths

of little girls who talk too much."

We straddled oily slimestones

under wrinkled water

that rushes onward

impatient as I

to wander the world.

30 Watershed

Ryan Michael Atencio

August 1983

Here I am, sucked into the notes that have the

most familiar rhythm I've ever known and mi

abuelita is thrusting her worn hips from left to

right, biting her lower lip and just dancing with

the ghosts of those boys from years ago. She has a

spatula in one hand, half a radish in the other,

and is wearing an apron that makes her look older

than her 70 years. The movement! The rhythm has

hypnotized her and presently she is in a hazed bar-

b-que trance. A whirlwind of strong woman because

there's no taxman today, no bills today, no INS man

today. It's Sunday and she makes me dance too.

I'm still dripping from the kiddie pool, the one

with duct-tape scars. I'm too big for that pool

but so are my cousins and the stray dog abuelita

found but we flood the water with our innocent

flesh and splash into the twilight and abuelita is

eating and dancing more than cooking and suddenly

an uncle yells "git mea beer!" and I relish the

responsibility and pit-patter my feet over cement

till I get to the Coleman and pop it—a sea of ice

and Budweiser. I reach for one and fall in.

I froze there, but I can still feel the rhythm,

sometimes.

Watershed 31

Ryan Michael Atencio

the shark

god damn you!

cursed be your kin

you son of a sheepherder

who grew up on sheepherder's bread

good to go from

earth-oven

to satchel to stomach for days

you who rolled your blind grandfather's

cigarettes with tobacco leaves

you whose left handed uncle played

violin and had no fingers on that hand

just grooves between the supposed knuckles

you new mexican

with your castillean stubbornness

with your new world savage perception of

the pueblo, the hacienda, los indios,

los anglos

why

did you stoke that

hideous fire with the phrase

"los indios"

because you were los indios

because you were los anglos tambien

you were walking a thin line

where there should be no lines,

no boundaries

no looted burial grounds

no seas of cortes

32 Watershed

just ocean

blue and salty

deep, deep ocean

alive

with all of her goodness

Watershed 33

Meghan Hedrick Philippi

Just like Grandma

In the old days Grandma moved quickly, buzzing efficiently

from place to place like a hummingbird. I felt clunky in her

presence, dull-witted and oversized. I watched her with admi

ration from the sidelines as she worked her garden or whipped

out one handmade quilt after another. I knew that if I tried to

enter the circle of her busyness I would only slow her down, or

undo with my clumsy hands what her deft ones had put

together.

I think about this now in the grocery store as I turn down

the cereal aisle and find her there, a diminutive woman in

fuzzy pink sweatpants. Her sweatshirt hangs loosely from

stooped shoulders; tiny feet are encased in a pair of child size

sneakers. She is staring in bewilderment at the brightly colored

cereal boxes, struggling to understand what the smiling car

toon animals are trying to tell her. For one instant I have the

ridiculous notion of scooping her up and setting her in the

shopping cart, and cruising the aisles with her as she once did

with me.

"Gran?" I move beside her and put my hand over hers. Her

skin is warm and dry, and her hand feels curiously doughy as

if it is constructed entirely of flesh. It is a fact that her bones are

shrinking. I imagine one day they will evaporate altogether

leaving only a worn out pink sweatsuit in a puddle on the

floor. "Are you o.k.?"

She starts and then her faded blue eyes spark with recogni

tion. "Hi there! Good to see you!," she exclaims and hugs me

tight, as if she hadn't seen me in a very long time—as if I had

n't driven her here, as if this hasn't been our weekly routine for

the last year and a half.

"Did you find your cereal?" I shout this, but she gives me a

vacant nod. It is her patented, I-couldn't-hear-a-thing-you-just-

said-but-I'm-sure-not-going-to-tell-you-thatlook.

"CEREAL!" Other shoppers glance at us surreptitiously and

hurry about their business.

Grandma shakes her head defiantly. "Where are those Nutty

Bars? Your Dad is mean, he says I can't have them." It is my

turn to shake my head, this time in exasperation. Nutty Bars—

34 Watershed

sugar wafers dipped in chocolate and nuts, the only thing she

will eat willingly.

"We already got your Nutty Bars Grandma, remember?" I

motion to the cart. She sees the familiar white and red box and

seems satisfied.

"Don't tell your dad though, he'll take them away."

"I promise Grandma. It's our secret."

She smiles, then veers away from me and shuffles toward

frozen foods.

"Gran. Grandma. GRANDMA!"

She turns and smiles at me sweetly.

"We've already done this aisle."

"We have? Oh." She looks terribly disappointed.

"Listen, we need to speed this up. I have to get to work."

This is a flat out lie, but I've told it so often now that I don't

even feel shame anymore. She loves our outings; she can make

a trip to the pharmacy last two hours. Lately it seems as

though her senility were contagious. I imagine confusion and

disorder curling out of her in long, smoky tendrils. They enter

me through my nose and ears and mouth; they begin to

squeeze my brain.

"You take after your old Grandma. I worked in department

stores for years." She steps back to 1953 for a moment of lucid

ity, while I think about that phrase 'Just like your grandmoth

er.' When I was a girl I heard it all the time. "Bookish, like her

grandma. Creative, like Grandma. Looks just like her grand

mother when she was young." It used to make me proud. Now

it makes me scared.

In the checkout line we are behind a middle-aged woman in

an expensive looking pant suit. In the front of her cart sits a

small boy in striped overalls. His face is covered with sticky

green goo and an empty lollipop stick is clutched in his tiny

white fist.

"Ohhh!" says Gran as she elbows past the woman and gives

the child's foot a squeeze. "What's your name?"

"This is Matthew," the woman answers proudly, beaming

down at the boy.

"Michelle?" asks Grandma.

I lean close to her ear. "Matthew!"

She gives me the nod.

"MATTHEW! HIS NAME IS MATTHEW! HE IS A BOY!"

Matthew's grandmother eyes me nervously and cranes her

Watershed 35

neck to see if there is another checkstand available. It's no use,

she is trapped.

"A boy? Well, he sure does have a lot of hair. What is he,

Mexican?"

I was afraid of something like this. These days the phrase

"think before you speak" means nothing to my grandmother.

"He does have beautiful hair," I say hopefully to the grand

mother, silently begging her not to take offense.

"This is my grand baby," says Grandma proudly, patting me

on the back. "It wasn't too long ago that she was that size."

The woman smiles politely at me and brushes the boy's hair

out of his eyes with her fingers.

In the parking lot I load the groceries into the trunk of the

car while Grandma watches. Then I lift her into the passenger

seat and buckle the seat belt across her chest. Her hands auto

matically go to the release, but I am too fast for her and grab

both of her hands in one of mine.

"Leave it!" I snap. She sticks out her bottom lip and turns

her face away from me, but I am prepared for this.

"Here's a treat for the ride home." I slip the Nutty Bar into

her lap. She grins and pats me lovingly on the cheek.

"You are a good girl," she whispers.

36 Watershed

John Gurnee

Saturday's heroes

straying rice creeps

over silent roads

near the edge of silo towns.

the arctic wind's return

blankets fields with white snows

ross and blues.

men come from miles around

driving muddy pick-ups

full of decoys,

excited dogs.

arriving before dawn

they struggle to fit into neoprenes

holding coffee

maybe a cigarette

or two.

brownings and berettas are shouldered tight

as they take their first step

into murky lagoons,

mowed rice

dreaming more than stories

to take home to the wife.

Watershed 37

Samuel Provenzano

Who Gonna

Boom box babies bouncin' in

a break-dance frenzy on gangbang boulevard.

The night sang BANG! and blood muffled

speakers silenced as break-dance broke.

A girl vision: a four-year-old black beauty

fell by the fallen all the time a callin'

Bobby, my bro oh Bobby my bro

What I gonna tell mama this time this time?

Who gonna clean my room n' sing me the blues?

Who gonna make me cereal n' tie my shoes?

Who gonna hug me n' make me feel good?

who gonna splain things when I ain't understood?

where you gone to bro? what I gonna do?

who gonna love me bro if it ain't you?

38 Watershed

Alexandria Rocha

Red Light District

I see you

stagger up the stairs,

smeared and papered with cherries.

Your drink

rattles your fingers

as you hold the ice cubes

between your teeth.

Please don't make my mother

replace the candles

aligning the hall.

They are there for

a reason.

They are there to light the way home,

the way out the door where darkness is black, not red,

and grins are no longer cheap.

Out there is like a tree house

and the rope ladder is my coat.

Why don't you go home to your wife

and your two small babies?

As you tell me you love me,

they are playing with the dolls

you bought from the lady outside.

She sells them for money, like me,

like us.

Yet, those dolls only make five,

and we make ten.

Watershed 39

Barbara L. Corner

Spring, You Jade

Like a gypsy maid she dances

with gold coins dangling from her brow,

jingling from her ears.

Luminous eyes sparkle

behind a shelter of disheveled hair.

Taut rosy skin sheaths her exquisitely.

She is draped in an artless rainbow of scarves

that sway to the harmony of undulating hips,

unraveling limbs, the tattoo beat of narrow heels,

the staccato snap of fingertips.

Promise she is, and it is me she beckons,

and I reach, I reach...

She laughs and flees

behind a screen of burnished beads

from which the older, coarser sister

steps with heaving breasts,

hot eyes, fervid breath.

The full-bodied, over-ripe necessity

presses against me,

the cyclical body responds.

I yearn to the glittering curtain

where one slim hand grasps a shimmering strand

and one dark eye looks out,

indifferent to all

but the lascivious process

she has begun.

40 Watershed

Melanee Grondahl Ophelia #2

Barbara L. Caneer

Lot's Daughters

And Abraham drew near, and said, Wilt thou

also destroy the righteous with the wicked?

Genesis 18:23 (King James Version)

Mother died the night the angels came

with their obsidian eyes and cutglass faces.

Sister and I hid from them,

peering out from the pantry.

They were appallingly beautiful, cold

as ice sculptures, distant as the stars, awful

in their indifferent arrogance.

Even father feared them more than the drunken men

who came rowdy to our door,

demanding the elegant strangers for sport.

But mother was not afraid,

not until father begged the mob to take us

to rape instead of his honored guests.

Then she clutched us tight in bony hands,

wailed and moaned, sobbed so hard

we thought we would drown in her salty tears.

She had been growing thick

with crusted brine for years to no purpose

and it served no purpose then.

When at last the angels intervened

it was for father's sake,

not for mother's tears, not for our fear.

Later, when we fled,

she never looked back at our former home.

But she heard—we all heard—the screams, the shrieks,

the great outpouring of pain from thousands of voices.

And somewhere in that mass of suffering were

the women she gossiped with

at the well when she went for water,

the potter who mended for free the jar she broke

so father need not know and punish her,

42 Watershed

the butcher who teased her

because he wanted to see her smile,

the hungry children she fed scraps to behind the house

when father was busy elsewhere.

For mother, this was, finally, too much sorrow.

She wept herself to death,

solidified into a pillar of salt,

leaving sister and me alone with that old lecher

who drinks and fornicates with us

and swears we make him do it.

The Lord loves this man.

What can we do?

Watershed 43

Barabara L. Caneer

Stalked

There was a riot of wild flowers

on my way to work today.

They crowded the banks of the roads,

brandishing their multi-colored flags,

threatening change.

Even in the concrete city I was not safe.

Fearless, kamikaze sunflowers

attacked the pavement,

cracking it with wanton abandon.

Roses and carnations

Mata Hari-ed their way

into shop windows and buttonholes,

and the dwarf cherry tree in my office

sat sullen and broody through the day,

straining at its ceramic container

like a P.O.W.

On my return home,

I plunged from garage to house

through pouncing tiger lilies

and swooping snapdragons,

infiltrators from my neighbor's yard.

An infantry of daisies,

led by daring dandelions,

nipped at my feet,

while a reserve of dogwood blossoms

cheered them on.

Inside, my tamed african violet,

having lost its usual compliance,

was loudly demanding

an afternoon airing on the porch,

unmindful of my jeopardy

in taking it there.

No, too many forces are at work outside

that would endanger

a mind set on winter

with a heart meant for spring.

44 Watershed

Barbara L. Corner

La Mujer Muda

En otro tiempo, habia una nifia

Once there was a girl

que amaba a las libeulas

Who loved the dragonflies

que destallaban en la luz del sol.

that glittered in the sun.

Trataba de capturarlas

She tried and tried to catch them

porque le encantaban a ella

las alas de telarana fina,

because she was enchanted

by their gossamer wings,

los ojos irisados,

their iridescent eyes,

los cuerpos como agujas brillantes.

their bodies like bright needles.

Las perseguia, suplicando,

"Ven a ca, ven a ca. No me huyan.

Solamente deseo quererlas."

She would chase them, begging,

"Come to me, come to me. Don't fly away.

I only want to cherish you."

Pero los ojos siempre la divisaban

But the eyes always spied her,

y las alas eran veloces.

and the wings were swift.

Finalmente las libeulas llegaron a ser fatigadas

de sus siiplicas

Finally, the dragonflies grew weary

of her pleas

y le concidieron su deseo.

and granted her wish.

Con las agujas cosieron juntos sus labios

With their needles they sewed her lips shut

y hicieron una madriguera en su pecho.

and burrowed into her breast.

Watershed 45

Hoy ella es muda,

Today she is mute,

pero lleva libeulas en su corazon

but she carries dragonflies in her heart

eternamente.

Forever.

46 Watershed

Contributors' Notes

Amy Antongiovanni teaches Creative Writing and English 1

for CSU, Chico and Butte College. She completed her M.F.A. at

St. Mary's College, where she studied under Brenda Hillman,

Bob Hass, Robert Pinsky, Michael Palmer, and Frank Bidart.

Ryan Michael Atencio was born in 1977 on the 110 freeway, en

route to Cedar-Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles. He plans to

move back there someday after earning his degrees. Presently,

he claims he is in love.

Noreen Austin, a re-entry student, is pursuing a major in

English and a minor in Creative Writing at CSU, Chico. Noreen

and her husband have lived in the Chico area for fifteen years

and parent a seven-year-old son.

Chris Baldwin received his B.A. in English Literature from

James Madison University in Harrisonburg, VA, home of the

world's largest freestanding concrete mold. He is the calendar

editor for the Chico News & Review and a part-time music store

employee (as long as he still gets discounts).

Anne Barrington says that she is "a person of few words."

Donald Beaman is a Humanities major at CSU, Chico.

Roxanne Brooks agrees with George Orwell: "All art is to

some extent propaganda." As a journalist, she advertises for

the liberation of Cuba, Ireland, and Persia.

Trevor Calvert, a senior, enjoys poetry, comic books, and a

variety of other things.

Barbara L. Caneer is a re-entry student at CSU, Chico with an

English major and Creative Writing minor. Her poetry has

been published in various magazines, including Suisun Valley

Review, Nota Bene, and The Eagles Cry.

Catherine Huff Clayton has her B.A. in English and hopes to

enter a M.F.A. program in the fall of 1999. She is a native of

California and has lived in the North Valley most of her life.

Bob Garner has recently been published in California Quarterly

and in This Little Bit of Earth, an anthology of Chico area writers.

Roxanna Glang, a Graduate Student of Psychology at CSU,

Chico, has been practicing writing for many years, only recent

ly discovering poetry.

Melanee Grondahl is an English Master's Degree candidate at

CSU, Chico. She is working towards becoming a writer and a

teacher of Creative Writing.

John Gurnee, from Granite Bay, is majoring in English at CSU,

Chico. His interests include poetry and music.

R. Eirik Ott, a member of the 1998 San Francisco Poetry Slam

Team, organizes the Word Core series of spoken word events

in Chico. Poetry road trips are among his favorite things to do.

He is addicted to e-mail and cannot pass a puppy without pet

ting its furry little head.

Meghan Hedrick Philippi is an English major at CSU, Chico.

She likes flowers, cats, and fairies.

Samuel Provenzano received his B.A. in English at CSU, Los

Angeles in 1973. He has, since that time, been a self-employed

brick mason. Currently, he is a graduate student at CSU, Chico

in the English Department.

Alexandria Rocha is a junior at CSU, Chico studying Creative

Writing as her minor.

Shannon Rooney views writing as a suitable form of self-tor

ture. She lives in Chico with her son, Austin, and a weird grey

cat named Effie. A poet-teacher for California Poets in the

Schools, she also writes a weekly column for the Lifestyle sec

tion of the Chico Enterprise-Record.

Mark Stilwell is a senior at CSU, Chico majoring in

Communication. He enjoys traveling and studying culture. He

has previously been published in Watershed.

Watershed was designed and typeset in Palatino 10/12 by the

editors, computer-assisted layout and design by Lightside

Group. It was printed on 70# Sundance natural at the CSU,

Chico Print Shop.